Behind The Paint
by Jotunheim Storm
Summary: She wasn't always crazy, evil and cruel. She was once as normal as me and you. But they broke her, with their words and knives. You who taunted her, better run for your lives. They always thought it was him who made her, they were wrong. She became a monster because that was all that was expected of her. Who is that girl behind the paint? (Harley Quinn Origin Story)


**Hello lovely Gotham Universe! It is I, your humble servant Jotunheim Storm.**

 **So sadly I heard the spoilers that Jerome has been killed off... *cries for eternity* Clearly these Gotham writers have no respect for the characters we all love first Fish, then Captain Essen and now Jerome!**

 **In a spite of passion and sadness I decided to write a Harley Quinn origin story. So here it is, but before hand I better warn you of a few things.**

 **WARNING: I changed the ethnicity of Doctor Harleen Quinzel. Now, let me explain myself a second before you all jump down my throat. I wanted to write a origin story for Harley but felt her original story was way too bland and samey. Yeah she meets the Joker and goes crazy... Blah, blah, blah. See how crappy that is? No real motive or thought from the writers whatsoever. I always felt like there needed to be more, a BETTER reason for her switch. So I made her black. Not for any crud because I want people's approval it's simply for story telling purposes. Also I feel like racism is something that needs to be tackled and I know the only way to tackle something is to speak out against the injustice. In this story Harleen will fac a a lot of racism, so if you're sensitive towards that subject don't read this. Also if you are a Canon Nazi, don't read this. But if you like to flush canon down the toilet after ripping it up then you should read this.**

 **There is also a lot of references to my OC Skye Hunter from _Riddles of Passion._ So all you really need to know is she is a friend of Harleen's and works for the GCPD. So I'm gonna stop rambling now. Also I was imagining that** **Keke Palmer would play Harleen, look her up, she is fab!**

 **ANY FLAMES AGAINST ME SCREWING WITH CANON WILL BE USED TO WARM MY HOUSE!**

 **~I've been Jotunheim Storm~**

 **Thanks xoxo**

* * *

 _Racism is man's gravest threat to man - the maximum of hatred for a minimum of reason. Abraham Joshua Heschel_

* * *

Harleen hates her life sometimes.

There are many reasons for this, the fact that the bus driver always does his best to drive away before she reaches the bus stop. That the local supermarket never has her favourite bread, granary. The way she never has an umbrella with her when it rains. She also hates she is always working with the loons. One of the many downsides of being a physiatrist.

Or the way people treat her, just because she is black.

She always ignores it though, she knows people only insult each other because they are inferior and jealous. Well at least that's what her friend Doctor Skye Hunter tells her.

Gotham is full of hateful, cruel people and Harleen knows that but she still cannot get past the way people take jabs at her just for the colour of her skin. It's not as if she wants to be black, if she could she would be a white woman, a white woman who doesn't have to deal with others scorn. She assumes this is what it is like for gay people, who deal with homophobia. Neither of these people ask for discrimination and yet they are given it.

* * *

 _They are just weak, it makes them feel strong to insult and hurt others,_ she assures herself as she rises from her bed, readying herself for another day in _paradise._ Her eyes dart around her small room in the crummy flat she lives in on the edge of town. The first thing her eyes rest upon is a large poster with the words "Rudeness is the weak person's imitation of strength," written upon it. It is her mantra, the only thing that gets her through the day. Well, that and spending time lunch time with Skye, the Gotham City Police Department's criminologist.

Harleen scans the rest of her box size room, groggily. The walls are painted a soft pink, which makes the room seem somewhat smaller but she cares not, she knows it's tiny. The carpet is of a blue shade, which is soft underfoot. Harleen chuckles slightly as the bristles tickle her feet. Her bed is of an average size which takes up even more space, the bed is messily made and covered by her red and black duvet cover. This bed takes up so much space that she resorted to moving her closet to her living room, luckily this living room possess more space than that of the room she stands in.

She trudges into the bathroom, not to wash as she had done so before she slept, but to brush out her ratty black hair. The only good mirror was in the marble panelled bathroom and Harleen is in no mood to muck around this morning. She is meeting her new client, Jerome Valeska today and knows she mustn't be late. The guards give her grief enough as it is, she doesn't need them to have another reason to be hurtful towards her. _Oh how I wish James Gordon would come back to the Asylum, at least he treated me with respect not just some second class citizen. He saw an intelligent woman, not a_ _ **black**_ _woman,_ she muses sadly to herself.

She takes the large wooden hairbrush before her eyes, pulling it through the tangles of her curly black hair. She finds herself often gritting her teeth and flinching when she reaches a large tangle. When she is somewhat satisfied with her hair, she gazes at her appearance for a moment. Her skin is of an ebony shade, her cheeks even darker as she often blushes. Her eyes are chocolate brown colour, filled with unshed tears. Tears she locks up until she can see Skye and tell her all of her problems. Her hair is a mass of black curls, falling past her shoulders. She is of an average height and her curves would be noticeable if she were to wear tight clothing. On her face she wears a pair of thick black glasses, glasses which she retrieved when she woke earlier this morning.

"I'm black, I'm not a monster," she sobs quietly as she lets the hot tears trickle down her cheeks.

* * *

The day before, she was approached by an older man. This old man yelled abusive and racist things towards her. When she turned her head and walked the other way, he threw a can at her. She wanted to ignore it, but Skye wouldn't stand for it. Skye made a formal complaint to her superior, Captain Essen, who in turn had the man fined and arrested for racial abuse and assault. James later called her to apologise for the fact he wasn't there to defend her. _At least they can see past my colour._

She makes her way through the bedroom, to the slightly larger living room in which her closet resided. She pulls out the draw from her birch coloured closet and finds a soft pink cotton shirt which would match with her white suit skirt and jacket. She throws her bed garments to the floor and then begins to dress herself for the day. Her hands quiver as she does up the buttons of her shirt. She couldn't stop worrying about the young man she was working with. He had committed matricide and then covered up his crimes, before having a mental breakdown while in custody of the GCPD and more importantly, Skye's custody. _Poor girl._ She worries for her life every day, it is Gotham after all but sitting in front of that maniac was enough to make her want to hurl.

She pulls the jacket cover her torso and shimmies the pencil skirt up around her waist. Before she leaves the house, she takes an apple placing it in her red bag and shoves her feet into a pair of blue heels, slamming the door behind her.

She runs down the street, the raining staining her glasses as she does so. _Yet again I have forgotten my umbrella._ The sky is a dismal grey, clouds clogging the rays of light that tries so desperately to reach the puddle filled streets of Gotham City. Harleen sighs at the yet again dreadful weather, when it isn't raining it is cold and when it isn't cold it is too hot. Gotham is never pleasant, in every sense of the word.

Harleen runs as she sees the bus approaching, with increasing speed, behind her. She skids slightly in her heels but manages to get on the bus before the driver attempts to speed away without her on it. She does not want to walk in this weather and she would hate to ruin her lovely blue heels. She passes the dollar to the gruff old man with the bristly white beard and takes her seat at the back of the bus. The second she sits down, the woman who would have sat beside her, moves along three sets, so to be as far away from Harleen as possible. Harleen sighs and turns her vision to the outside world, full of anarchy, rage and rain. _Rosa Parks would be disgusted._

Harleen saw the Asylum almost instantly. The large sign was the biggest give away of course, but the clinging cobwebs and the rickety old building gave off the same effect as the crumbling words did. She steps warily off of the bus and makes a slow walk towards the large gate, showing her ID card before carrying through the building.

* * *

"Alright treacle?" she heard a voice call, she spun on her heel to see one of the pot-bellied guards. He went by the name of Trev. Not that she ever calls him what he wishes, he is often Mister Kings or Trevor if she so pleases.

Trevor is one of the men who guards who are in charge of the loons. Trevor is an aging man, weighed down by years and way too many bacon butties. Harleen doesn't feel safe in his company, she isn't sure whether it is a large gun he carries or the fact he gets worn out climbing the stairs. _If all hell breaks out, I highly doubt he would be able to protect me._ Trevor is an acceptable man, he does make remarks about her colour but surprisingly he is one of the _nice_ ones.

"I am fine, Trevor, thank you for asking. How are you?" she replies formally, despite the fact she wants to move on and just get the day over and done with.

He chuckles breathily, leaning on the metal table with the security computer, leering at her with his hazel eyes.

"Your formality really pisses me off some times, ebony," he remarks. He often calls her ebony, it is probably the least rude comment on her colour she has encountered. Just because it isn't as rude, doesn't mean it isn't hurtful.

She tuts, before walking away from him as he calls out "Ebony" after her. _Sometimes I wonder if he thinks that is my name._

* * *

She is led to a yellow washed room, the only source of light being a small lantern hanging from the ceiling. There is grime in every section the room, from the walls to the cracks in the cold brick floor. She is escorted to a cold marble table, and is told to sit in an even colder metal chair. She scans the room and all she can see is the large muscular men holding guns ready to shoot this boy, Jerome, if he acts out. Harleen gulps slightly as the door at the other end of the room is flung open.

A young pale man is led through the door, his green eyes lighting up at the sight of Harleen, a new face. His thin lips twitch up into a sneer as he is sat before her, his beige straight jacket restraining him as shimmies closer towards her. He grins, a menacing grin, showing his bright sharp teeth. His smile almost seems to take up most of his face, and not in a positive way.

"Hellooo, missues, I'm Jerome," he chuckles leaning across the table to get a better look of Harleen, she leans back in response. "Oh yeah, you lot like personal space… Yawn."

Harleen tries not to shrink back in fear of the man who so wishes to get closer to her. Jerome's green eyes, piercing and cold much like the outside world, seem to bore into Harleen's soul and he grins at her discomfort.

"Gooday Mister Valeska, I'm Doctor Quinzel. I am here to help you, so you can become the good person we all know you can be," she spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully making sure not to overwhelm the boy or make him kill her.

"You're gorgeous, has anyone ever told you that?" He bites down on his lip before carrying on with his speech. "We all know I'm a bad, bad boy. My _dearest_ mother saw that from the day I was born. That's why she beat me so, her hard hand against my flesh. Slap, slap, slap… SHE JUST KEPT HITTING ME!" He screams at the top of his lungs, snarling leaning forwards while his teeth glittered like diamonds in the light. Diamonds that could rip through her flesh.

He must have seen the fear flickering across Harleen's features because he leant back, breathing in deeply, looking down at the marble. A tear stains the marble, a tear falling from his cold green eyes.

"Scared ya, didn't I?" he laughs coldly, not making attempt to cover the emptiness of his laughter. "Silly old me."

Harleen sucks in a breath before composing herself once again, brushing the soft black curl behind her ear. Harleen leans towards Jerome, as a peace offering. _A peace offering he better not break_ she thought solemnly to herself.

"I understand you are hurting Jerome, and that's why Doctor Hunter wanted me to work with you," she tells him softly, not wanting to be on the end of his shrill screams any longer.

Jerome licks the rough and peeling flesh of from his thin bottom lip, before clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, making an echoing clicking sound in this near barren room. His green eyes lock onto Harleen's deep brown eyes, as he searches her eyes for something. If he is searching for fear, then Harleen's eye are full of it, but she knew he isn't searching for fear. He is searching for sincerity. This is the first time Harleen sees something not dark and monstrous sitting in the pale face of the murderer. His eyes almost hold something broken, upset and very human. He notices the broken shields of toughness and snarls in response.

"Oh Quinzel, what would a pretty young girl like you understand about pain? Are you confined to four dirty walls, which seem to close in on you at every second? Are you told you're a monster, constantly? Are you labelled a criminal just for freeing yourself? Freeing yourself from the SUFFERING!" his scream is rasping with choking tears and the sheer intensity of ear wrecking shriek. Harleen notices the bulging vein in his forehead as he screams. He recoils back into himself, his speech becoming more pointed and quiet. "Y'know nothing. You can't see the burning flames, damning you all to hell where you can suffer as much as I have in this life."

Harleen wants to fear the murderer before her, the boy who killed his own mother and laughed afterwards. She wants to hate his guts, cursing his very existence to hell and beyond. But she doesn't, she sees a breaking boy who is confused and alone. _Skye is right, he's just a boy._ Harleen does know pain, she just doesn't let on often.

* * *

"Why isn't Skye here, is she too scared to face me herself?" he questions, grinning, once again showing off his dagger like teeth.

Harleen gulps before opening her mouth to speak again, she worries he will scream again if she says something wrong. But she worries more that if he doesn't scream he will carry on with the quiet menace that hangs to his very being.

"She has prior business at the police department, she is currently working with a women in the same position as you. A woman who goes by the name of Miriam Loeb. She killed her mother too," she tells him.

He nods, smirking, as if he believes he can't be the only person who wishes to rid themselves of their mother. _While my mother annoys the hell out of me, always asking if I have a boyfriend I could never lift a finger against her… I could never kill her._

"Ah Skye, what a darling, always helping everyone… It must be _so_ inconvenient that she spends every day and night asking after me… She is so innocent, I cannot help but feel I broke that… But you, gorgeous, are slightly different aren't you. You have a danger in your eyes, a broken spirit trying to break free from the constraints of society which you are bound too… I'm just speculating of course," he mumbles slightly as he reaches the end of his speech. His eyes bore into her soul and she can't help but feel like all of those words he said are true.

She gulps, looking down to the golden wrist watch. It has already been an hour, she is only meant to spend half an hour at most with the maniac. She can't help but notice how spell bounding this ginger boy is and she hates the fact just like Skye she doesn't really fear him. She pities him. She quickly scurries from the room, leaving the green eyed boy with an airy promise she will return. He chuckles in response, wishing her good day in French before being led away and back to the solitary confinement she is sure he is kept in.

* * *

"Hey girlie," calls one of the other guards. She rolls her eyes and walks on.

He wolf whistles after her and crinkles her nose in disgust. _She always did hate cat callers._ She goes to leave this hell hole she is forced to work in, but before she gets a chance to leave the gate the guard squeezes her bottom tightly. She gasps, turning around to slap the foul old man's hand from her behind.

"If you were white I would do you," he purrs.

She balls up her fists, walking away with her head held high, not allowing the awful guards to see the silent tears stain her dark cheeks. As she leaves the only word she can hear being yelled at her is the N word.

 _I'm black, I'm not a monster. I'm a human being._

* * *

As the week goes on the insults get worse and Harleen finds herself spending more and more time with the insane but captivating ginger murderer. He sees a human, he doesn't see her colour. Maybe that's why she tolerates him, maybe even likes him. Or maybe it's the fact his green eyes glisten in the dark and dim lighting of the jail cell.

She sits on the opposite side of the table, the guards have now left them alone. They trust the fact The Jokester, as she has come to call him, doesn't wish to harm Harleen. It seems to the guards he only wishes to talk to someone how doesn't wish to brutally murder him and leave his corpse out for the buzzards. The guards are watching a baseball match, bother Jerome and Harleen can hear their screams of excitement.

"Do you wanna know the worse bit about wearing this straight jacket? I can't even scratch my own nose!" he grins, once again allowing Harleen a glimpse at his pearly white teeth, teeth shaped like daggers.

She leans forward, allowing her slender fingertips to grace the pale skin of the young murderer before her. She scratches his nose and smiles gently as he leans into the touch. She assumes that he barely ever felt human contact so that must have been almost pleasurable for him.

"Thank you… Why do you let them speak to you like that?" he asks, his question like acid against her and she can't help but tense up as he asks, she puts up her barriers and closes in on herself again.

She doesn't respond and finds herself staring at the dirtied wall and blinking back the oncoming set of tears. She notices Jerome's expression from the corner of her eye. His face is simply stone cold but his eyes hold sympathy.

"What am I supposed to do? Kill them?" she laughs emptily.

Jerome's eyes glisten with the insanity she now associates him with but he then shakes his head.

"Killing them lets them off. See, I knew we were similar. We are both painted as monsters because of the circumstances and the way society perceives us. They may see a second class citizen, not worth their time. But I see a gorgeous and strong independent woman… Sometimes it's more interesting to become the most they want you to be. But the greatest thing is you can hide it all, hide it all behind a smile," he informs her, as if hinting that smiling could help her get away with murder. Essentially.

She goes to leave, after realising that the hours had melted away once again spending time with the man she was infatuated with. Before she does, she spins on her heel, lightly pressing her rogued lips to the pale ones of the murderer before her. It seems like an age and a moment all in one second. Before he can react she has already run away.

* * *

She sighs to herself, pressing her back against the back of the wall, not being able to ignore the burning up of her cheeks. She then hears one of the guards, stumbling towards her. She rolls her eyes, going to leave the room but then he approaches her, swaying slightly as he steps.

"Hello sexy," he calls out before repeating some of the racist words from earlier.

As he approaches she can smell the liquor on his breath and the way his eyes glaze over gave it all away. He pushes his heavy body against her, pressing all of his weight against her rather fragile form. She yelps out in fear as grabs her waist and begins aggressively nipping at her neck. She screams out in fear, pain and anguish. She might be dreaming it but she hears Jerome yelling out her name, cursing the man who is assaulting her.

"Help me!" she cries out, hot tears staining her cheeks. "Let me go! Please!"

She finds a burning sense of courage and brings her knee to his groin. She expects him to double over in pain but this just causes him to punch her in the face. She lets out a howl, before finally being released from his strong hold. She sprints from the Asylum, running all of the way home, watching as her tears stain the concrete floor as she runs.

* * *

She pushes open the door to her home, her face now covered by the train track of tears. She walks slowly into the bathroom, seeing the large dark hues on her cheeks, bravely she touches the dark patch on her face before flinching from the pain. She sinks to the floor, burying her face into her knees as she sobs for what seems like an age.

That night she doesn't sleep, she just lays in the comfort of her duvet thinking about Jerome and his words. _You can hide it all behind a smile,_ she thinks. She is unsure whether she should hide her pain behind a smile or if he meant something more gruesome.

She springs out from her bed, throwing her nightgown to the floor before finding something she wore for Halloween last year. She couldn't ignore the murderous thoughts lingering in her head, keeping her awake all night long. She pulls out a black and red checkered clown suit, a suit that clung to her figure and covered all of her flesh apart from her feet and hands. She pulls this outfit over her head before taking a pair of lace gloves from her bedside table. (A gift from Skye at Christmas.) She shoves her feet in her blue heels, before making her way to the bathroom.

She lets her hair down from the tight ponytail she was wearing in the night and bravely poured a large amount of toilet bleach into it. She feels a slight burning sensation but she grins instead, bearing the pain bravely. She pushes the damp hair from her face to now see peroxide blonde locks, locks which she ties into to pig tails at both sides of her head. She grabs the white paint she wore last Halloween alongside Skye. She smears the white paint across her features, watching as her once ebony like skin is turned to the pale white of snow that covers Gotham city in the winter months. She grins as the dark patches of bruises disappear and she no longer sees the hated black doctor. She sees a murderess, ready to strike.

She sees the monster they want her to be.

Before she leaves the house that only reminds her more of the pain and regret that life has passed to her, she grabs the large camping mallet. She swings it over her shoulder, before letting her heels clack across the floor as she goes to find the man. The one who assaulted her.

* * *

She sees him walking down the street almost instantly, his blue eyes are sober now and his mop of dirty blonde hair fall into his eyes. She calls out his name, Fred, and he turns licking his lips seductively. He calls her derogatory words and she simply gives him a wide grin before raising the large mallet above her head, letting it swing before it hits his head firmly.

When she sees the crimson blood squirt across the concrete she laughs maliciously, before hitting him several more times until she can no longer hear his wheezing breath. She buckles to her knees before him, touching the warm crimson liquid with her hands. She looks at the stained hands, cackling wildly. The rain begins to pour from the sky and she stares but to the dark clouds, letting her skin being covered in the droplets of water, washing away the paint that covers her features.

She then hears the droning sirens of the police cars, and she turns her body around to look at the people before her. She first sees Detective Bullock, his hazel eyes wide with shock. Jim Gordon, with the sandy blonde hair and abyssal blue eyes, imitates the same expression on the face of the older detective. Lastly she notices the girl with the rain stained glasses, blonde and green hair, and the fear stricken face.

Skye.

"I became the monster you all wanted me to be!" she screams at the top of her lungs before she is dragged away. She smiles though, because she knows she'll be with Jerome again soon.

* * *

Harleen was never respected as she was a black woman. Harley will never be respected as she is a psychopath. She thought changing herself would make them care. But it didn't.

Maybe no one would ever care about the lost soul of Harleen Quinzel. No one but him.

Maybe she is destined to be hated.


End file.
